


Caught

by oceaxe



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, Arthur's been keeping a secret, Eames finds out what it is, M/M, Romance, Stalking, a big one, and profits from it, basically it's crackfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 06:21:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17319620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceaxe/pseuds/oceaxe
Summary: Arthur wakes up on December 14th to find a miniature Hershey's bar inside his shoe. It’s fun-sized. With a note underneath, printed by dot matrix. “we're going to have some fun,” it says.





	Caught

**Author's Note:**

  * For [katedev](https://archiveofourown.org/users/katedev/gifts).



> For Katedev, whose prompt was "caught." 
> 
> So many thanks to QueenThayet and Lbswasp for brainstorming with me, until my rather anemic idea flourished into... well, this. And many thanks also to Citrinesunset, for the speedy beta!!
> 
> Finally, so, so many apologies to Katedev for the lateness. I hope this still fits the bill.

December, 2011

The 14th

Arthur wakes up on December 13 to find a miniature Hershey's bar inside his shoe. It’s fun sized. With a note underneath, printed by dot matrix. “we're going to have some fun,” it says. 

As he packs his bags for the job in Brussels, he finds several more chocolate bars, all of them in the familiar brown wrapper, escalating in size from “fun” to standard to a novelty slab the size of a small child.

A prank. But who would be so stupid as to give him Hershey bars? His friends… well, his work colleagues, that is, would know that he eats nothing but the highest quality, fair trade, artisanal chocolate on the rare occasions that he eats chocolate at all. 

It's probably Ariadne, he thinks as he unwraps a standard-size bar and nibbles. 

Hm, delicious. He side-eyes the 5 lb pound bar. He could probably fit it in his suit bag. 

***

The 15th

 

The next morning, at the hotel, Arthur’s rummaging through said suit bag when his hand encounters a soft plastic case. He extracts it from underneath his spare pair of brogues. It turns out to contain a rainbow set of 12 ergonomic crochet hooks. He frowns and texts Ariadne.

_Thank you for the gifts, it’s very thoughtful._

'It’s very inappropriate and unwelcome,' is what he wants to send. He’d known he’d made an impression on her with that kiss, but surely she had felt the lack of chemistry as keenly as he had. And how on earth had she discovered his crochet habit? 

He ponders the mystery as he makes his way to the team’s office, a disused lace factory. 

He hopes she’ll still work on his teams after he's found a way to let her down without actually saying, “the thought of touching you makes my skin crawl.”

***

The 16th

Arthur finds the t-shirt among the stack of new towels the maid left for him when he was downstairs arguing over his room service bill. 

On the front, it reads “Badminton - Never Play With Your Cock Alone Again.” On the back, it reads “Rock Out With Your Shuttlecock Out.” He can’t decide which is worse. 

The smile falls off his face as he realizes that he’s never told anyone in dreamshare that he was a high school badminton player. 

Well, that’s putting it mildly. A champion, more like. A king on the court. 

His phone pings and he checks his texts.

_im afraid i didn’t send you anything. must be a secret admirer!_

Huh. A secret admirer. Not likely, he thinks. More sinister possibilities fill his mind and he pushes them aside. 

At least he doesn't have to break Ariadne's heart.

***

The 17th

 

He’s digging around in his leather satchel for his moleskine when he feels something cool and hard as steel. His stomach drops as he pulls it out, eyes darting around the factory to make sure no one is looking. 

It’s a pristine, original-condition gear shift for a Schwinn Stingray. Looks to be from 1967, and the decal is intact. Miraculous. He’s been looking for one of these for his vintage Pea Picker for three y…. His excitable internal monologue screeches to a halt. 

The Hershey’s thing could have simply been someone substituting their own poor taste for his well-advertised good taste. An easy misstep from a careless, if surprisingly enterprising, gifter. The crochet hooks - well, Arthur’s willing to believe that he might have left one behind on the Oslo job; somehow the allure of crocheting in the wintery climes of Norway had been too cozy to resist. But crochet is pretty innocuous. Plenty of people crochet. It’s hardly cloak and dagger stuff. 

And the badminton shirt is just too tacky to be threatening. 

But this is something else. This was expensive, and difficult to obtain. 

This is a message.

Someone knows his secret, and is willing to spend a considerable amount of money to ensure that he knows they know. 

He thinks back through his entire history in the criminal underworld. There are a few people who want him dead, a few people he’s had no choice but to cross. Jobs fall through, people lose money. It leads to reprisals. But he’s taken pains to neutralize all known threats. He believed he’d succeeded. Perhaps not.

Well, if all they have so far is a few mildly embarrassing data points about his life and interests, he’s not all that concerned. He reminds himself that he’s heavily armed, relatively dangerous, and very well connected. 

And if he happens to have what most people would call bad taste, well… actually, that would be _fatal_ to his reputation. 

His stomach roils.

***

The 18th

When Arthur finds a thumb drive in the breast pocket of his grey Dunhill, he feels both dread and relief. Finally, he’s going to get some answers. At least he'll know the price for retaining his reputation. 

He texts the team and tells them to take the morning off, then spends an hour locating and purchasing a used Dell, setting it up and inserting the drive. 

It turns out to be loaded with the entire Sandro Loporcaro catalogue of escape tricks. Including the Scarlet Monte Red and the Foxy Wrist Tie. 2 terabytes of lore, tips and expert insight on escape magic. 

In turn, it turns out _not_ to be an overt threat or blackmail. His cursor hovers over the first file eagerly.

But… huh. Arthur pauses, his pulse skyrocketing even higher than it had when he read the file list and realized he’d soon have the secrets of Tarbell’s Vest Turning trick in the palm of his (slightly damp) hand. 

_Is_ this a threat? Visions of himself handcuffed or hogtied, taunted by some jackbooted thug, run through his head. 

Well, if that's on the menu, he’d better prepare. He rolls up his sleeves and gets to work, a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth.

***

The 19th

He tosses and turns all night, or half the night, having spent the first half devouring the escape magic files. On waking, he strokes his erection as he daydreams about customized handcuffs, then showers and tries to remember that he should be very, very concerned. 

It’s just nice, though. He feels like he has something to look forward to, for once. Something more than another notch in his professional Prada belt. Something more than another payday.

When he gets in the Autolux he scheduled, he sees a wrapped package on the seat, bearing his initials. He raps on the window and asks the driver to let him out, ignoring the stream of Belgian curses that follow him to the taxi stand. Better safe than sorry. He takes the package with him, though.

He opens it in the new taxi. It’s Apassionato, Ray Pizzi’s first album. An album that has been out of print for years. Arthur’s looked everywhere. Ray “The Godfather” Pizzi, Arthur’s childhood musical idol. He opens the case, heart beating hard. It’s signed “To Arthur,” but Ray hasn’t performed in public for years. 

It’s definitely blackmail.

Or a bribe. A bribe! It must be a bribe. He wonders what they want him to do.

No, it’s both. It’s an offer he can’t refuse. 

They, whoever they are, want him to do something for them. And they’re banking on the fact that even if the dreamshare community could potentially excuse his penchant for absurd, ugly bikes known for accidental castrations, crocheting cozies for most beverage containers and also his toiletries, a sport so boring that even the word “cock” amongst its basic equipment can’t make it sexy, and stage magic that went out of style before he was born, it will never, ever excuse him from being an aficionado of jazz bassoon. 

*** 

The 20th

The framed Nasty Nick Garbage Pail Kid card with fake gold-leafed certificates of authenticity from the Topps vault is the only card missing from his collection. Or was. Arthur holds it in his hands, stunned for a moment. Then he looks it up online. One just sold on Ebay for $5500. 

He still doesn’t know what they want.

Arthur mentally reviews which storage facility holds his collection and smiles when he realizes he had them moved to his favorite safehouse. It’ll look perfect next to its twin, Evil Eddie.

***

The 21st

The next present, which appears by Amazon drone while he’s en route to the new HQ, is a sleek white - no, wait, it’s _opalescent_ \- parade rifle with what looks like a working trigger. He darts down an alleyway and examines the thing for evidence of any bullet chambers. Finding none, and consumed with curiosity, he lets himself pull the trigger, bracing himself for a shot.

Just like in a cartoon, a stick pops out of the barrel, from which unfurls a piece of paper that proves to be a photocopy of a microfiche file of the irate letter to the editor that Arthur wrote his senior year of high school demanding that the US Twirling Association include rifles and end their obsessive and limiting focus on the useless baton. 

After he stashes the beauty at a nearby cafe, paying 50 Euros for the privilege, he spends the rest of the day reminiscing about his days in colorguard, the complex routines he, as captain of the squad, designed, and the utter incompetence of his squadron. He once did a septuple aerial toss and caught it perfectly. 

To be honest, it's always been a real struggle not to twirl his rifles in the dreamscape. Maybe he can work out his urges with this one. 

***

The 22nd

He finds the tickets in the newspaper he buys from a street vendor on his way back to the hotel. The fifth hotel he’s stayed at in the last week and a half, given all the security breaches. His eyes widen when he registers what the tickets are for. 

BTS is playing at the 28th Seoul Music Awards and he can be there. With a friend, if he had one to whom he could reveal his appreciation of K-pop. Could have been worse, the stalker could have discovered his obsession with Pentatonix.

Yet again, even as he fumes and swoons at the same time --even as he paces the room, knowing it would be sheer madness to use these tickets and knowing with even more certainty that he is definitely, definitely going to use at least one of these tickets -- he feels relief. Because surely BTS isn’t that embarrassing. Is it? 

Then a picture falls out of the ticket envelope. It’s of him, at the show that BTS played in Tokyo, in 2015.

The photo is rather grainy but clear enough to show his happiness and excitement. He looks about 12 years old. (He was 34.)

He has to find out who is doing this, using everything he loves against him, everything that makes him who he is. It’s not for public consumption, and moreover it will ruin his professional reputation. That’s bad enough. Apocalyptic. 

But it’s the open insinuation that he ought to be ashamed of his enthusiasms that hurts the most.

***

The 23rd

When he opens the ominously-sized Amazon box (after having first done a thorough test of traces of explosive chemicals and booby traps), he forgets his wounded pride of the night before. Blind rage takes its place.

Playing hacky sack may be unfashionable, yes, no question. But it never hurt anyone. (At least, it never hurt anyone who wasn’t standing too close to a hacky sack circle and bent over to tie their shoe at the wrong moment and got a kick to the face, but that person --Levi, to be precise-- has only himself to blame for his injuries.)

Arthur has had it with this blackmailer, or stalker, or whatever the fuck he’s dealing with. 

He cancels the job, pays the team out of his own savings, and spends the next 18 hours furiously following leads on the jerkwad who has uncovered the truth at the core of Arthur’s fine couteur and false hauteur. 

He takes several breaks to try out the various hacky sacks and brush up on his skills.

***

The 24th

He gets the alert from his safehouse outside of Reims at the same time as his breakfast arrives to the Airbnb he’s staying at. It’s probably just a squirrel, he thinks as he pays the courier. 

Breakfast, when he opens the box, consists of a Liege waffle, two poached eggs and a set of cat ears. He spares a moment to be distractedly grateful that the cat ears didn’t puncture the eggs, but unfortunately this bit of grace is wasted as the eggs go cold while he examines this new, horrifying development. 

They are real fur, and they are not on a hairband. They clip into one’s hair and they’re black and sleek and he’s turned on and terrified. 

Whoever is behind this… has he gotten the wrong end of the stick? Could it be possible they want a... date? 

To fuck him? 

No, they want to out him. 

Oh shit, the alert. He turns his attention back to his phone, the security app blinking madly at him. 

Someone’s broken in.

Arthur watches the blurry footage of a well-built man (wearing a fucking Santa hat, of all things) disabling the keypad on the front door and immediately books the next flight out. 

A few hours later, he’s located his weapon stash near the outbuilding and is sneaking up on the house. He gets close to the front window and sidles over until he can peer in just a fraction.

Really, Arthur should have guessed by now. 

Fucking Eames. His fury triples in intensity. What the hell is he up to? Well, whatever ugly little plan he’s hatched in his warped brain, Arthur’s going to turn it down. He doesn’t care if all of dreamshare finds out about his humiliatingly poor taste. It will be worth to see the look on Eames’ face when he realizes that Arthur is… that Arthur isn’t… _what_ is Eames doing now?

Is he… he’s undressing. He’s taking off his hideous greenish blazer (that Arthur has always secretly envied), he’s unbuttoning some travesty of a poly-blend vintage shirt (that Arthur rather enjoys the sheen of), he’s… he’s covered in the worst (best) tattoos Arthur has ever seen and holy camole. That body.

Arthur’s gun clatters to the concrete as his jaw drops. 

He picks it back up because this is some sick joke. It has to be. 

The door swings open silently, and he beholds the spectacle of Eames, naked and splayed across his bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire, a red satin ribbon tied around his junk. It’s nice junk. 

Arthur makes an involuntary noise, somewhere between whining and choking, and the singing fish covering the wall behind him all start in on “Don’t Worry Be Happy,” except for the one that, for some reason, sings “King of the Road.” 

Eames swivels his head smoothly to the side and regards Arthur with a liquid gaze. “Ah, you’ve arrived at last,” he purrs, and Arthur levels his gun at him. 

The ribbon is clearly tied too tightly for quick movements, to judge by the wince that Eames makes as he jerks upright, hands up in supplication.

“Woah, darling, easy now. You must see I mean you no harm,” he starts, but Arthur cuts him off.

“What do you want?” 

“What do you mean, what do I want?” Eames gaze turns soft, melting. “I want _you_.” 

Arthur stares. Eames’ cock twitches. The gun lowers slightly. Arthur lifts it back up.

“For what?” 

Eames laughs, then sobers abruptly as Arthur cocks the hammer. 

“For… ever?” he says, his eyebrows a question, his smile the answer. 

Arthur lowers the gun again, arms numb. 

“Safety on?” Eames asks, lightly.

Arthur uncocks the gun and puts the safety on.

“Forever. You want to… what? Partner up?” 

None of this makes any sense. Eames has always had it out for him. (Now he _really_ has it out for him, his mind supplies helpfully.) Eames has always wanted to point out all of Arthur’s foibles and oddities. 

Eames sits back down on the fur rug. “Why don’t you come over here?”

Arthur almost takes a step. “Why don’t you have any clothes on?” he retorts, instead.

“I have seriously underestimated the amount of effort it would require to seduce you,” Eames says under his breath. 

“Will you please just explain what all this is about.” Suddenly, he's exhausted. He’s remembering how pleased he was with the gifts, how that pleasure soured when he realized that his own pleasure was being mocked, used as weapon against him. Eames wants to seduce him? He’s got emotional whiplash and he really wants a drink.

“With pleasure,” Eames says. “Can we have a drink? Also, I might put my trousers back on if you don’t mind.” 

Arthur nods distractedly, though his eyes do linger on Eames’ ass as it disappears into his pleated pants. 

“I have every flavor of Schnapps they make, plus Goldschlager and Rumpleminz,” he says as he drifts to the wet bar. 

“Delicious,” Eames says. “I’ll have one of each.” Arthur grits his teeth, his back a stiff line. “I’ll have a sex on the beach,” he amends, chastened. 

Arthur sets about making it, and one for himself. He’d make a Harvey Wallbanger, but he’s all out of Galliano, apparently. 

He sits down in the club chair across from Eames and sets the collins glass on the glass-topped table with a clink. 

“Talk,” he says.

“Well,” Eames begins, and then stops. Arthur looks up from his drink, which is delicious as always, craft cocktails are such bunk, you ought to stick with the classics. Eames is ducking his head to meet Arthur’s reluctant gaze. “I saw you, years ago, I saw you notice what I was wearing.” 

“Yeah, it’s hard to miss,” Arthur mutters, but it’s all for show. Eames has his number now.

Eames laughs, a confidential, conspiratorial sound. “I saw that you didn’t hate it. I’d put on my most garish ensemble for reasons that escape me now-”

“To make the mark overlook you, to seem too oblivious to worry about,” Arthur finishes for him.

“Well, yes. Obviously. But you’d only just met me, and I had noticed how very put-together you were. Are. I expected you to be revolted. But you weren’t.”

Arthur flushes. Had he been that obvious? 

“You liked it. You liked the way the fabric clung, the clash of colors. The wide collar and the loud pattern.”

“I liked the way it looked on you,” he admits. “For a second, I thought you might.. that I…”

“But then you made snide comments and ignored me for the rest of the job. I was forced to conclude that I‘d been mistaken.”

Arthur takes a deep breath. “You weren’t mistaken.” He flushes even more deeply and prays to whatever deity is hanging around that he doesn’t look as young as he did in that BTS picture.

“I know that,” Eames says, a slow smile spreading over his horrible, wonderful mouth. It’s not a teasing smile. “I eventually got the book on you, Arthur. I had to compile it myself, but I had an awfully good time doing so.”

“You haven’t even got a novella on me, Eames,” Arthur says, his voice flat but his cheeks dimpling involuntarily. “Barely an epigraph.”

“I have another present for you,” Eames says, looking around him on the sofa. “It’s sort of a sequel to the last present.” He gets up and walks towards the fireplace. As he stands and the firelight hits his still-bare chest in all the right places, Arthur suddenly remembers what the last present was. 

“You know I’m not a furry, right?” he blurts.

Eames just gives him a raised-eyebrow and keeps looking around the bearskin rug. “Aha!” he says, pulling a smallish box out from under a stack of firewood. He sits and pats the rug next to him. Arthur joins him, kneeling and sitting on his heels, and opens the gift.

The box contains a black velvet collar and a tail. A tail that is made of real fox fur dyed deep black. A tail with an engraved silver buttplug. 

“Won’t you be my kitten?” Arthur reads. Jesus god.

“I think that’s my line,” Eames says. He’s looking at Arthur hopefully, with a certain amount of fear in his eyes. Arthur cocks his head. He’s never known anyone to get a present so right, and that includes the rifle, the GPK card and the bassoon album. “I, erm, unearthed your predilection for pet play erotica from your browser history, but you know, some things are better left in the imagination. I didn’t know if…”

“No, this is… this is… this is good.” He’s always wanted this, wanted someone who would be down with this. Never imagined it could happen. His cock is getting hard and good God, he can see that Eames is, too. 

Arthur has a sudden, horrific thought. “Wait. So you’ve been faking your love of vintage clothes and gaudy jewelry this whole time. Does that mean…” he trails off. 

“Does that mean what, darling?” 

Arthur doesn’t want to put it into words. “You know why I wear the clothes I do.”

“I do, yes.” 

“People wouldn’t respect me if they knew.”

Eames reaches out and runs his fingers down Arthur’s face. “Oh, Arthur,” he says, warmth and empathy in his low voice. “I wouldn’t respect you if I _didn’t_ know.”

“So you don’t-”

“I don’t have good taste? Heavens no. I have the worst taste in the world. In everything. Well, present company excepted, I think.” 

Arthur can’t take it anymore. He shuffles forward and puts his mouth, at last, on Eames’. Eames’ lips are fucking perfect. Arthur’s going to eat him alive, just to punish him for torturing him with this mouth all these years.

Eames pulls away, the bastard. “Oh, and…”

“And what,” Arthur murmurs, without a trace of curiosity. He’s much more curious to get his hands down those old-man trousers. 

“And I do actually have great dress sense.” 

Arthur rears back. “You what?” 

“Yes. Actually. Well, there’s something you should know.”

“What is that?”

“Paolo.”

Arthur stares. Of course Eames knows that someone else dresses Arthur. He knows the whole shebang, he is well apprised that Arthur’s Dunhills are just a smokescreen. So why is he so shocked? 

“Paolo doesn’t dress you anymore.”

“Yes, he does,” Arthur sighs. 

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Yes he does, Eames -- don’t you think i know who selects and tailors my entire wardrobe?”

“About that.”

Arthur feels like all he’s doing is staring in disbelief at Eames. To be fair, it is a nice view. And rather hard to believe.

“I paid him off and took his place. Remember when he changed his email address?”

Arthur blanches. “That’s a bit creepy, Eames.”

“Well, you always know where on the planet I am. I reckon our stalking skills are about evenly matched.”

All at once, Arthur is done with talking. “Can you put that collar on me now?”

“With pleasure, kitten. Just as soon as you’ve got your tail on.” 

***

The 25th

It is a very, very merry Christmas. Arthur and Eames decide not to leave the safehouse until New Years, and end up staying until Valentine’s Day. Even then, they only leave to retrieve the revolving heart-shaped bed that Arthur bought Eames as thanks for the extended snooping, stalking and invasive present-giving that brought them together, at long last.


End file.
